sw1mushfandomcom-20200215-history
RPlog:Trapped in Trinumvira
Webb's brow furrows as he notices the line of Imperial forces begin to retreat. Still squeezing off shots at any targets of opportunity, he grimly reports into his comlink, "Trinum command, this is Halo lead at point Orange-7. Imperial forces to the north seem to be in retreat. Repeat, reporting Imperial retreat..." he closes the channel to allow him to control his breathing enough to squeeze off one last shot, between breaths, between heartbeats, striking an ST officer in the back. To his left, a soldier manning a high powered electro-optical sensor slaved to a target designator reports, "Sir.... umm.... I think you shot General Veers?! "I know," comes Webb's cold, calm answer as he starts to rise to his feet to turn to face the forces that have rallied about him. He lets out a long sigh, then shakes his head, and re-slings his rifle to begin to aid in the task of collecting the wounded. Now his hands shake, though only a tiny tremor. Now, at last, Webb's platoon can risk turning some attention to the problem that has sprung up in their midst. "Sir!" comes a shout from nearby, as a pair of soldiers who had been fighting to either side of the slender figure in the gear of Sergeant Sung seize the chance to detain her. "Sir, if they're retreating, we got a problem over here you need to see!" Shenner hisses involuntarily as the bigger soldier to her left side prods her left arm, setting off a flare of sensation that seems to slice from her shoulder down to her fingertips and back again. _How the hell--_ Then she has no time to think of anything further, as the Marine to her right barks, "Okay, _drop it_!" Knowing better than to argue with that tone, Shenner releases her hold on her rifle. Its stock is bloody as it drops down to the earth before her; so, for that matter, is her left arm. Webb eyes Shenner for a moment, then looks out over the field of Imperial bodies and burned out vehicles before he asks of the two soldiers who are attempting to detain Shenner, "How'd she do?" His sensor goggles zoom in close upon the field of death... many of the Imperials out there still move. Perhaps when darkness falls, he can equip a team with thermal camouflage and Ghillie, and go out hunting in the field. Now, it's time to breath a little, and thank whatever higher power you believe in that you're still alive. Webb isn't a religious man. Instead, he silently thanks those living and dead who made him what he is. Lifting his sensor visor, then removing his helmet, he peers back towards the 'soldier', studying her intently, as he reaches out to undo the attachment points upon Shenner's helmet before finally lifting it off of the woman's head. Green eyes. Disheveled russet hair pulled back from slender features in a braid down the back of her head. Features drawn into lines of pain and increasing weariness.... it is, in short, Shenner, and as the helmet is pulled off her, taking with it the tacital readouts she'd been ignoring because their information makes no sense to her, she swallows hard and braces herself for the consequences she'd been ignoring before. "She seemed to know how to handle her rifle, sir," reports the Marine to the musician's right, "but we realized something was wrong when she didn't take command of the heavy artillery. And when she spoke, sir." The soldier to Shen's left adds, peering critically at the redhead's arm, "She's taken a hit." Webb arches an eyebrow faintly as the familiar features emerge from beneath the helmet that he removes from the woman who wears Gunnery Sergeant Sung's armor. The weary, disheveled Ranger faces the wounded bard for a long moment, wondering for a moment how she ended up fighting beside him in the uniform and gear of a Marine. The stresses of combat can produce somewhat odd reactions from individuals, especially after the battle is over and one finds time returning to its normal pace, and one's body is jittery with ebbing adrenaline. Still, Webb's response to the sight of his friend is perhaps a little odd even by those standards. He simply steps forwards, wraps his arms snugly about the musician-turned-soldier's waist, taking care not to put any undue pressure upon the woman's wounded arm, and lifts her from her feet to twirl her about. Even if you couldn't hear him laughing, you could tell that right now he's rather happy to see you. Paul would have shouted at her. She's absolutely certain that Ariani'll shout, too, and possibly Karm, though volume isn't the habit of either Tethra or Aa'leet. And so Shenner was prepared for shouting and lectures, even for Webb and his compatriots hauling her off and slapping her into the brig by way of disciplining her for this little stunt of hers. What she _wasn't_ prepared for was being scooped up off her feet and spun around. Shenner's world lurches a little, dizziness spiking up behind her eyes as her body starts informing her sharply that it has issues with the abuse her arm has taken. "Uh... hi," she croaks uncertainly, managing a wan lopsided grin while the two Marines who had called Webb over gape at their CO. Webb finally sets Shenner lightly back onto her feet, and after another long moment, releases her from the hug altogether. Webb is, after all, not about to yell at a certain impetuous bard for something that he'd probably have done himself, if he were in her shoes. Besides... given the present situation, Trinumvira's defenders will probably need her. To the two Marines who had been restraining Shenner, he says, "This woman is now entitled to the brevet rank of Private First Class, with the priveledges and responsibilities associated with that rank, and service in the Marine Corps of the Caspar Democratic Union, if she chooses to accept," noting the look on the faces of the two Marines, Webb adds to that statement, "Just try to find an officer on this bloody post that'll stop me! Get her below, and get her treated." Now it's Shenner's turn to gape. "Wha?" is all she manages to get out, as her jaw drops and she's set more or less down on her feet. Her? A Marine? The whirling her head's already started threatening to do in reaction to the increasing wetness along her arm picks up pace, and she looks startledly from face to face as the Marine to her right takes her arm. "This way," she's told briskly, and she succeeds in a dazed nod. The other Marine gapes harder at Webb; this is NOT the response one generally expects when someone swipes a soldier's gear and uses it for unauthorized entrance into a battlefield. But he's not about to argue with Webb, not right now, and between the two of them they get the bard and her weaponry hustled off into the base. Webb eyes the Marine who gapes at him, fixing the man with his steely grey eyes, eyes that are settling into the 'thousand yard stare' as levels of adrenaline rush are steadily stripped away and fatigue slips in, "You weren't in the Rebellion, were you, Marine?" As he turns to follow the marine who escorts Shenner back down into the tunnel leading to the core of the base, he adds, "I think Standard Operating Procedure just shot to ribbons..." Webb heads into the dark tunnel, and disappears from sight. Webb has left. You stride into the tunnel, minding the dark.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The tunnel finally spills into a small parking area within the rock, and a large doorway leads into... Muster Room - Trinumvira Base Looking like an attempt to civilize a small cave, this room not only is the official assembly and briefing room, but the recreation hall and lounge during off-hours for the troops of Caspar. Unit emblems coat the walls, hanging next to holoscreens and mission boards that never seem to idle. Chairs and tables are scattered about, often crammed with soldiers or base personnel. On the far side, a blue-lit corridor leads down a ramp towards what sounds to be like ship engines and machinery. On one side, a tight staircase spirals up, on the opposite, it spirals down. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => Webb => Stalh => Azya => Dlasik => Weapon Locker(#7967V) -=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=- orridor leads to Brig - Trinumvira Base. ownstairs leads to Medical Facility - Trinumvira Base. pstairs leads to Military Operations Center (MOPS'C) - Trinumvira Base. assageway leads to Trinum Landing Bay - Trinumvira Base. ut leads to Virabluff Yards - Trinumvira Base. Azya looks at you for a moment. Flanked by a pair of rather startled-looking Marines, herself in combat gear and with a bloodied left arm, a pale and fatigued Shenner is hustled into view from outside. The two soldiers escorting her are also carrying her weaponry, a pistol and a rifle with a slight smear of blood on the stock, and the three are obviously bound for the medical facilities. Azya is walking slowly across the area, guarded by a slightly jumpy Gunnery Sargeant Sung. The Imperial doesn't seem to be of a mind to go anywhere in particular, except away from the quarters she's been locked in all afternoon. Whitney comes down the length of the tunnel. Whitney has arrived. Webb trudges into the Muster room, escorting a wounded, russet-haired woman who is attired in body armor that would normally be in the possession of one Gunnery Sergeant Ilyana Sung. Another Marine flanks the woman in question, and others escort or carry comrades in various wounded states. The defense of Trinumvira, which while all too costly for the Empire, was obviously not without cost to the Marines, judging by the steady trail of wounded and bodies that are being brought in. Knowing that the medical facilities are bound to be clogged, Webb gestures towards the muster room, "Corpsmen can work on the less serious cases in here... Medical bay is reporting that they're running pretty close to full as is." At times like this, he's glad that Trinumvira was built with plenty of room. Technically, the true depths of the tunnels is a bit of a state secret. Perhaps this has prompted some to refer to this place as a 'Vrelt-hole straight to hell'. To Shenner he gestures, "Here... sit," before he begins to remove the load bearing torso-shell of the woman's armor. Azya stops suddening in her wanderings as she suddenly becomes aware of the steady stream of incoming wounded and bodies. She blinks, her face obviously torn between these signs of cost to the CDU and her natural sympathy. Hrm...perhaps that would explain why she joined the Navy and not the Bureau or COMPNOR. She watches the parade of sorts quietly, if keenly, making no move to help or hinder those aiding the wounded. Shenner hadn't quite yet realized exactly how _heavy_ a soldier's gear is, until Webb encourages her to stop and sit. As her two escorts back off, leaeaving her to their CO's... er... graces, the musician more or less sags down into a sitting position where she's bid. Once she does, she rasps tiredly to Webb, "I was gonna bring the -- ow! -- gear back..." Whitney carries a wounded child in, no expression in those violet eyes as she carefully hands the child over towards the medics. The child's arm was ripped off right at the shoulder, having been used as a shield by the Imperial troopers. Violet eyes turn to quietly stare at the Imperial soldier in the room as her lips compressed into a thin line. Muscles twitched as she gripped her armored covered fist before she moves towards the injured personnel and attempted to help with what medical expertise she has, doing so merticulously and rigidly. Stalh too, his eyes cold and showing none of the warmth a compassionate member of the Republic should show, scans the scene of desolation before him. Some fallen show fake pride and honour in repelling the Imperial menace... for now. Shaking his head, he starts to move away in disgust - the thought of Azya gone from his mind for a moment. False glimmers of hope. Ones that will soon be snuffed out like a candle in the wind. The death knell for the CDU was nigh, Stalh thought. Nothing he or anyone else for that matter would be able to stop it. Prolong it yes, but no one can ever hold off death for ever. It will be ruthless. He expects nothing else, nor wants nothing else. Only the anger of a heated fued of sadistic proportions excites him now. And it is perhaps the wailing keen of a dying man that makes Stalh smile. Death. It was around him. Ironic, really. In this place, on this planet he hates so much, he has found home. The catches for the torso shell are located under each arm. Once Webb has opened them, the torso shell of Shenner's field armor opens up like a clamshell, thanks to hinged, semirigid secions atop the shoulders. Carefully, he lifts off the armor, and now begins to examine Shenner's arm, after retreiving Shen's field medical pack from the woman's load bearing gear. Azya turns slowly, watching the scenes around her unfold. Some of what she sees apparently causes her pity to win over for moments, while at other times, it appears that her satisfaction? Pride? Loyalty? for the Empire's having taken such a cost wins. She keeps her hands by her side, the circles under her eyes, and somewhat healed cut and bruised left temple definately not meriting any notice among this...in fact, if anything, the pilot is avoided. WHile all other able bodies are recruited to treat the wounded, the Imperial pilot is avoided like the plague, leaving a small circle of "No mans land" around herself and Sung. Reaching out from within one of the pockets from her armor, Whitney draws out a strange amulet...the one that Azya had seen her with before the battle. She stares at it for a long moment holding it in her hand before she presses it to her lips and slips it around her neck. She approached Webb, pausing before him as she kneels down to check the extent of Shenner's injuries, "Where does it hurt?" She asked as she prods the area of the wound gently. Ouch. Shenner must have taken a bit of shrapnel from that explosion that had gone off near her; her sleeve is shredded up there around her bicep, a single tear through which a small shard of metal has managed to lodge. It's not big wound. Nor is it bleeding too heavily at this point... but it's been bleeding, slowly but surely, enough to have sent trickles of blood down to her hand by now and dampen her sleeve on the way. Shenner peers down at her own arm with a trace of bemusement darkening her eyes. And at Whitney's approach and the exploration of her injury, she sucks in a sharp gasp and croaks, "That'd be it, right there..." Whitney takes the kit out from Webb's hand casting a look at him that clearly said, "Men...they don't know a thing about medical care." as she opens the box and peers inside. The medical supplies in the kit were adequate as she reaches out to rip the sleeve off from Shenner. She turns to Shenner, "this is going to sting." as she pours an antiseptic solution around the wound. She ties a piece of cloth above the wound and tightens it to stop the blood flow. Carefully she uses a pair of tweezers and slowly ease the sharpnel out from its wound. The blood oozes from the open wound as Whitney cleans it using the antiseptic lotion before wrapping it up using the bandage. She unties the cloth above the bicep, "rest that." She states curtly as she turns to replace the equipment back in the kit. Circling like a bird of prey, Stalh's attention has now drifted back to that of the Imperial pilot. A captive. A disgrace. Be it she be Republic, Empire, CDU or just a down on her luck pirate, there was no excuse for being captured. Death before dishonour. Isn't that what the Empire had taught him? Perhaps some of his lessons on Carida and again in the squardon 'Whirlwind', were of good use to him. Drawing near her, but wary of the Gunnery Sergeant, he sends a haunting whisper in her direction: "What are fears but voices Airy, Whispering harm where harm is not. An deluding the unwary, Until the fatal bolt is shot... "Greetings from the Republic, Azya." he says with a chilling laugh that flitters above the nervous voices of those near the man with the Imperial tattoo. Webb lets out a long sigh as he is able to turn the task of treating Shenner over to Whitney. It's probably about time too... even through the camouflaged face paint that he wears, it begins to show through. As usual he's dirty, he's bloody (though probably not with his own blood, and sore. He removes an old, coil bound paper log-book from one pocket, and takes a moment to update it, including a count of confirmed kills, probable kills, and enemy WIAs that he's inflicted, and a record of anything significant that he's damaged. If he weren't fighting a great suicidal wave, this tally would probably be the envy of any soldier, but killing men who have no particular sense of self-preservation is like... the phrase 'clubbing baby nerfs' pops into his mind. He trudges his way towards Stalh, and Azya... to the Republic 'diplomat', he states flatly, "Heinrich," before shifting his gaze to Azya and Gunny Sung. Sting... well, that's one word for it. Shenner lets out a louder hiss, through tightly clenched teeth, as Whitney efficiently attends to her arm. _You can handle this, right, street rat? It's just a little scratch. Not the first time you've been hurt. And hey, coulda been worse, this coulda been Mandalore..._ Her thoughts start to scatter, green gaze going a little unfocused. Battle fatigue and the jittery drain of adrenaline from an overcharged system can strike veterans like Webb, and Shenner is no veteran. With her free hand she surreptitiously tries to prop herself up where she sits, just barely managing to keep sitting up reasonably straight. "I can do that," she whispers hoarsely to Whitney's order. Azya spins on her heal at the sound of the soft, yet farmiliar, voice speaking to her. Her eyes widen slightly in surprise as she see's Stalh. Unconscously, the pilot lifts her arms, wrapping them protectively around her mid-section as she takes a small, half-step backwards. Death before dishonor, perhaps...but things change when there is more than one life in the balance, and it's impossible to tell how it will effect someone until it does. She narrows her eyes slightly at the man she considers more of an agent than a diplomat. Whitney nods as she leans forward to assist Shenner a little, the amulet dangling from her neck to reveal a round circle and within were a pair of praying hands. Strange for it to be on a solider. She straightens again as she cast a look towards the confrontation that seems to be brewing from Azya's direction. Briefly her eyes move over the man Webb called "Heinrich" , the violet eyes narrowing as she eyes the tattoo on his arm. Her lips thinned again as she presses them firmly together as she contemplates her choices, her gaze flicking from Azya to Stalh and back again. "Changed sides once again?" he snorts. An agent? Perhaps. Often his master, the dark and her vile tendecies to corrupt the young and innocent, have called upon his services to desecrate yet another soul in the perpetual destruction of all that is good and sweet. Such feelings deserved no place in this cold brutal world such as his. It was mockery of some higher power that things even existed - to torment and torture. Very few beings knew the existence of such things, and, Stalh thinks while placing a small smirk that kisses his lips like poison, it was those that deserved to perish the most. Tracer was all but his to control. Blaze too, was yet another minion. Soon, he starts as he smiles towards the woman, she will be his too. Quite abruptly, Shenner is seized by a ridiculous desire to sing again. But this time, it's not the defiant lyrics of the "March of Tanaab"; no, it's the irreverent impromptu words some drunken wit once thought up to be sung to the tune of the Imperial March. _We are the Empire, we're big, and we're mean / We are Darth Vader's destruction machine...._ Just barely, she manages to stop herself from babble-singing the words, even under her breath. _What the kark's wrong with me?_ she wonders blearily, reaching for the silver-and-brass necklace she hadn't removed in putting on Sung's gear. Momentarily left to herself, she quietly reels. Azya continues to eye Stalh wearily through narrowed eyes. She didn't trust this man before, when he 'skimmed' her mail over her shoulder, or when Morganna warned her of him, and she doesn't trust him now. She spares a momentary glance at Webb, her note to detail quick in picking up his tiredness, and how highly stressed he is at the mement. Her gaze reverts back to Stalh almost immediately though, and remains there, watching him silently. The LCP takes that opportunity to approach the trio. Her gaze fixated on that man's tattoo as she does so. She turns to Webb and ask quietly, "Is that another prisoner? Should I escort him to the Brig? Perhaps he'll feel much better there." Webb steps up to Azya's side, gazing sternly across at Stalh with his steely grey eyes. The Ranger's Imperial Nova tatoo shows quite clearly through the smudged camouflage paint. This is, perhaps, the first time that the two have engaged in conversation of any sort, or confronted one another this closely. And yet, Webb always refers to the man as 'Heinrech', not whatever fanciful title he's officially supposed to call a pissant, sadistic diplomat. "The two of you know each other?" Something in Webb's stance implies a certain... protectiveness of Azya. Stalh The Human occupying your line of vision radiates a sense of self-control. His 185 (6ft) stands out, more noticeably perhaps due to his dominating composure of control and rigidness. His body appears well toned, more so than normal due to the fact that the man is wearing a tight hugging black tee-shirt, which shows off the curvacious nature of his well built arms. The tee-shirt is plain black and void of any markings. The shirt is tucked neatly into pants which are commonally known as 'urban fatigues'. These pants are grey, white and gun-metal blue, which make them possible to be hidden better against the dull grey colour of most civilised cities. The pants are tucked tightly into highly polished black combat boots, which stop just about 5 centimetres above the ankle. The man's face marks an added feature to his already military appearance. His skin is a nordic tan that glows in the light. Coupled with this is a head of dark brown hair. His eyes are captivating. They are the darkest green possibly imagined - almost black. Hauntingly they stare, the eyes appear unnatural - like a shield blocking off prying eyes to his soul - almost demonical. His hands, unaccustomly ungloved, reveal a single black mark on the wrists: ST_SS80826. Another tattoo is covered by his sleeve, it appears blue, but one cannot be certain - intriguing it is however. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => DY-255 Heavy Blaster Pistol => Protective Vest => MX Heavy Blaster Pistol His eyes remain on her for a moment before bowing slightly in nothing less than a condescending manner. "No greeting for your former comrade?" he drawls mockingly, his cold face cracking slightly as his eyes set upon the starburst so artistically burned upon the man's forehead. He shows no surprise though, as if he has often seen that tactic used before in his own cruel sessions with unfortunate soldiers who had crossed his wrath or the Emperor's grace when he was once one of their number. "New fashion from Coruscant?" he asks innocently, though his eyes betray the laughter coursing within him like the river of blood that seems to flow all over the surface of the planet. "It is... different, to say the least." His smile, which crept up over the course of his mocking acknowledgement of Webb, sours slightly at the audacity of the Lance Corporal now before him. "Would a prisoner of war have two heavy blaster pistols?" His look at utter disbelief of the stupidity of this soldier is clearly apparent. "CDU Standards are seeming to improve." Cold and cutting, particularly as Stalh looks around at the dead and dying near him. Azya nods once, curtly, as she answers Webb's question quietly. "We have met, once or twice." She can't help but smirk slightly at the implications of Whitney's question, but, at Stalh's reply, and the thought of what he's surely done in the past with such..instruments, her arms tighten around her middle slightly. She quickly lapses back into silance. Apparently , with her concentration fixated on the tattoo, she did not noticed the two blasters around his waist. Shrugging her shoulders, she states clearly, "perhaps then you'll like to hand those arms over , in case you "misuse" them." as her violet eyes glints clearly as she looks as though she would enjoy taking it off him...and not so gently. Webb shakes his head at Whitney's inquiry, and actually emits a faint chuckle, "No need for that, Lance Corporal. Can't tell the brig apart from any other room in this force-forsaken vrelt-hole to hell anyways." He does have a point... it's all the same bloody cave, or grave, depending upon your point of view. Somehow he suspects that just being stuck down here with the Empire outside, and Whitney feigning ignorance, and Shenner being musical will invariably drive the former Imperial up the wall. He chuckles faintly at Stalh's remark, and shakes his head, "Oh, I was never your comrade, Heinrech. Product of the same machine, perhaps... /radically/ different process." Webb's cold gaze, would be quite familiar, by the way, to someone who often watches IGN. Uh... didn't this guy kinda kidnap the female pilot who he now seems so protective of? _Get a grip, street rat,_ Shenner orders herself sternly. marshalling her thoughts into something resembling cohesive order. _Can't just fall asleep right here..._ Even _if_ sleep sounds like a very good idea. A marvelously good idea. The best idea she's heard in a month of weekends. She manages to focus her glassy gaze on a sweep around the room, interested in discovering where Webb has gone; when she spots him, though, and the suspiciously familiar figure near him, fatigue suddenly takes a back seat to a new surge of adrenaline. Is that who she _thinks_ it is? Propelled by that surge, she forces herself to her feet. Forces herself to cross the distance between her and her friend... ande now, perhaps, her comrade in arms, and forces herself to get a better look to confirm that the man she spotted is, in fact, the man she knows as Stalh. Once she's done this, she doesn't have to fake or force the sort of expression you'd expect to find on the face of someone who'd just accidentally stepped in a pile of dung. "Pardon me for cuttin' in," she speaks up with as much energy as her hoarse voice can manage, "but if I can just get you to point me at where I can fall over, I'd appreciate it." Whitney lets her gaze flicker over the man with the tattoo as she awaits his answer, turning to Webb and asking, "Should I relieve him of his weapons?" "If I was to misuse these weapons, Corporal, I am sure the instructors at the Academy would thank me for probably saving the lives of others who perhaps would be in danger if they were unfortunate enough to be under the command of a soldier who fails to notice weapons on an enemy." An enemy in deed. Though he fights side by side them against the Imperial yoke, he makes no qualms about the dangers of them ever turning their back to him. It would be their final mistake. Turning back towards the woman he smiles, "Yes, once or twice. She was busy plotting your death, Ranger." Still grinning at the ridiculous tattoo, he starts again on Webb. "That is great work if I may say so. Who is your decorator?" Before he can even contemplate letting out a cackle of pented up hatred, a vision, long wished dead, emerges like a wraith out of the shadows of his eyes. Shenner. So the prodigal daughter of the street prostiture returns. "How quaint." is all he offers in acknowledgement for starters as he eyes her once. "The pleasure is all yours to remeet my acquaintance, Shenner." Smiling tersely he reaches into a pocket quickly, pulling out a closed fist and smiling. A single coin, spinning slowly as if caught in a vortex where time was in slow motion, drops from his hand. To others, the symbol is meaningless. To Stalh, Shenner and Webb, the message is all but deadly clear. Not even fazed by the insult, the LCP catches the coin before it falls to the ground. The extra strength the armor gave her enable her to bend the coin into the two as she tosses it back to the man, "My...careless aren't you." She said rather flippantly, though her eyes clearly indicated that she knew that was no accident. "That's a nice tattoo on your arm too, beautiful..manifique. Who's your decorator? I might get one myself." as she states, her expression utterly guileless and with not a hint of being affected by the man's comments. Webb quirks a faint smirk at Stalh's suggestion that Azya is plotting his death, and says lightly, "Yes, Heinrech, I imagine she has been. I have that way with women," the comment prompts a smirk from the Gunnery Sergeant, as Webb gestures back, "She's plotting my death too. So's the Lance Corporal over there," he starts to gesture towards Shenner, then shrugs off the gesture... no, probably not yet, but eyeing the bard does remind him of pressing business, "Uh... Gunny. You want to help Miss Veery here find quarters?" Knowing that there are probably very few in known space who can successfully torture Stalh with their very presence, he flashes a full-fledged grin towards Shenner. If his identity had been in the slightest bit of doubt, the coin would confirm it, as far as Shenner is concerned. Her tired young face shifts expressions, though, from one of contempt to one of outright boredom, and that's exactly all the acknowledgement she gives the psychotic freak's existence. She knows what he thinks he wants to relay with that coin toss, but she isn't about to acknowledge it; instead, she very deliberately turns her back on him and focuses her attention on Webb. Let Stalh rant and rave and show people what a big, nasty, scary person he is; yawn-o-rama. Shenner doesn't care. All she cares about right now is a reasonably safe place to sleep, and she trusts Webb to point one out to her. For that matter, she'd trust Webb to put a blaster bolt between Stalh's eyes if the man tried anything, and in the midst of the battle fatigue crashing over her in a wave, Shenner almost hopes he will. In the meantime, she glances tiredly to Sung, and manages a small nonchalant greeting of, "I need to give you your gear back anyway..." Azya doesn't even appear to notice the coin in the air, though she does look momentarily towards Shenner as the woman speaks. Anything to get Stalh's attentions off her for a time is a most welcome diversion. As the three around herself and Stalh begin to 'speak' with him, she begins to back out. Turning, she makes her way quickly towards the 3 SOC barracks. She doesn't look back, not realizing Sung is currently busy walking Shenner other places. Tired of the Corporal's mere pretense to be a soldier, Stalh rolls up his sleeve to reveal but a single tattoo. A world, oceanic in appearence and filled with a wave of serenity and peace. An unusual tattoo for a merchant of death. However, another image soon joins the other as the sleeve is raised higher. No, joined would be the wrong word. Eviscerated. A single dagger of intricate detail, including an obsidian blade is revealed to be driven through the world with murderous intention. The dagger and it's pommel, which shows an image that matches the one of Webb's forehead, is covered with the blood of the world, it's innocence and defenceless embroidered into one. Words, bold and black return anyone's gaze: 'Reap The Whirlwind'. The image, if anyone knows anything of Imperial units would reveal it to be the emblem to the Imperial execution squads, the elite of the Emperor's pyschotic killers. Eyeing down the woman with a murderous bottled rage, he simple offers a cold smile. "You could not handle the pain, little girl." he says, obviously not referring to the tattoo itself, but the memories of decapitated childs of less than 6 months old, or the routine slaughter of villages just because they looked at someone the wrong way. Perhaps he is boasting. Perhaps he was just trying to impress. Perhaps he is warning the woman, for Stalh, it seems, would not relish the task of splattering the woman's membrane across the floor. Not yet, anyway. Whitney starts laughing suddenly, throwing back her head as she does so . She takes another look at the tattoo that he has revealed and continue laughing softly, maybe she is a little loony, who knows. She composes herself a little but a wide smile spread across the LCP's face, unfamiliar since everyone here is almost associated with the LCP being a rather "Cold fish" you might call it. She looks at him and then raise an eyebrow before deliberately turning her back on him and toward Webb asking, "You need any medical help, Sir?" Webb turns to follow the two red-haired women down the hallway as Sung asks, "We keeping her with us, Sir?" to which Webb answers, "We got the room?" as the four of them approach one of the doors to one of the sets of barracks. Emblazoned upon the door is the emblem of the Caspian Rangers, and the emblem of the 3 Special Operations Company, a starfield in the shape of a Cason Hawke with the motto, "Silent as Space; Hard as Vacuum." For whatever reason, he's gesturing for Whitney to follow him. Whitney looks slightly quizzical as she follows Webb down the corridor, and she turns to take another look at the tattoo and breaks into girlish giggles, quite unlike her at all. Perhaps she might be a Changeling.. Sung is, of course, in the process of lecturing Shenner in her placidly calm tones, on the etiquet of properly cleaning borrowed body armor after you've bled all over it, implying that the woman expects to receive hers back in its original non-bloodied state. Moving. This works for Shenner, as long as it ends in a place where she can sleep. She stumbles into motion alongside Sung, and bobs her head a little numbly at the lecture being delivered her. Later, maybe later, she'll take time to wonder why Webb's Rangers haven't locked her up. Later, she'll let herself think about what she's done today on the field of battle. Later, she'll wonder what the nine karking hells a raving lunatic like Stalh is doing here.... later. After Shenner sleeps. Trapped in Trinumvira